Shiny Curse
by Kirunavaara
Summary: When Maglor cast the Silmaril into the sea, he thought it was finally over. - It was over, wasn't it? Co-written by Crackers and me.
1. Chapter 1

AN: So, Crackers and I had this conversation a while ago about how it was fortunate that neither of us ever had to try to get rid of a Silmaril by throwing it into the sea because it probably would've come back very fast... and that's how we came up with this story. I wrote the first chapter, the second is hers,and so on.

Now, before I get boring, we just want to say enjoy reading, and we hope you like it!

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**Chapter I **

Darkness was all he could see. Varda's stars, as well as the Moon – they were covered by thick clouds. Even Earendil was nowhere to be seen, although he had to admit that the absence of this particular light left him somewhat relieved right now. At times he thought he could make out the movements of the Sea, but maybe it was just his imagination. Had it been this dark after the destruction of The Trees?

He could hear the waves, however. They were tossing angrily, and crashing against some rocks nearby. The splashing of water, the howling of the wind – those were the only sounds he could hear. Even the seagulls remained silent. They must have taken shelter somewhere against the upcoming storm.

How long had he been standing here, alone? It must have been quite a while. He must be closer to the water than the darkness had led him to believe also, for while his shoes were still dry, the rest of his clothes were soaked.

It was the end of his world, or at least that was what it felt like. His father and his brothers were all dead by now. The Oath had taken them, one after another, until he alone remained. There was no home he could return to, either, not after what Maedhros and he had done at the camp. In the midst of celebration, they had drawn their swords and slain their kin. Again. Their sins could not be forgiven, he was sure of that. And in the end, they had gained nothing. The Silmarils were forever lost to them now… to them? No, to him, since he was the only one left. The burning of his hands reminded him of the moment he had let go of the jewel he held to throw it into the Sea.

It had all been in vain. All those years, all those fights, all the blood they had shed, everything they had lost – in the end, it meant nothing. At least it was over. If there was nothing left, then he was finally free. It was what they all had wished for so desperately over the past centuries, was it not? Freedom. Nobody had told him that freedom tasted this bitter, though.

With a sigh, Maglor turned to leave. Where to? He did not know. All he wanted was to get as far away from this place as he could. Maybe, if he brought enough miles between himself and Beleriand, just maybe he could forget. Maybe he could find peace. A laugh escaped his mouth. Peace? He sincerely doubted it. There was no way his demons would leave him alone.

He threw one last glance in the direction of the ocean. All of a sudden, a curious greenish gleam caught his attention. Whatever it was, it slowly moved closer to the shore. Then, something was washed up by the next wave. When the water drew back, it remained behind. Almost entirely covered by sand, the item's silver-golden glow still illuminated a part of the beach.

The elf's eyes widened. It was impossible. A wave of shock and horror momentarily paralyzed him. A few minutes passed before he hesitantly moved closer to the thing, although his instincts told him not to. Told him not to? Quite the contrary, they screamed at him to run away. He should have listened.

This had to be some kind of sick joke. Or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, maybe he started seeing things. He could have sworn that he had thrown the thing away with all the force he had still left in his body. He could have sworn that it would be lost in the sea forever. Yet there it laid, the accursed jewel, spreading its holy light as innocent as ever. Impossible. A humorless grin appeared on his face. Sworn. He really shouldn't do that anymore.

Then, to his utmost terror and fright, an unknown voice spoke, mocking him. He paled, and his legs almost gave in, when he heard the words. "Did you really think you could get rid of me so easily?" Stumbling backwards, Maglor screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, here's the next chapter. Have fun!:)

Oh, before I forget it again: obviously, none of Tolkien's stuff belongs to us, and we don't get paid for this. Did anybody really think so?

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**Chapter II**

"Will you shut up?" said Maglor to the shining Jewel beside his head. He was resting in the soft sand of a cold northern beach, trying his best to be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the crashing waves.

The Silmaril had rhythm, too, unfortunately, and lots of it; the only thing Maglor had been hearing for the past eight hours was the Jewel's constant, pitchy singing of nothing other than the Lay of Leithian. It had just begun on its fifth round through, and if he had to listen to the tale that doomed him and his family one more time, he thought he was going simply to lose his mind.

"_Be he friend or foe, or seed defiled of Morgoth Bauglir, or mortal child that in after days on earth shall dwell, no law nor love nor league of hell, not might of Gods not moveless fate-_" the Silmaril crooned with unflagging vigour, pausing to prompt him, "Come on, Maglor, you've a lovely tenor!"

Maglor rolled over, only to be blinded by the Jewel's light, which he had previously positioned himself to avoid. He clenched his eyes shut, but the white radiance was visible even behind his eyelids; he hastily turned his back to the Silmaril once more.

"-_shall him defend from wrath and hate of Fëanor's sons who takes or steals or finding keeps the Silmarils, the thrice-enchanted globes of light that shine until the final night_."

That was it. That. Was. It. He rose to his feet, with his back still to the Silmaril. "That's it!" he yelled at it. It paid him no heed, continuing the incessant tune.

He knelt down in the sand, and scooped up a handful of it. Palm after palm of snow-white grains, up, up, up, and up to form a narrow hole in the faithless terrain, perhaps four feet deep, about twice the diameter of the Holy Jewel itself. His vision had begun to blur and his eyelids to droop by the time he was at last satisfied with his labour.

Shielding his tired eyes with his hand, he picked up the Silmaril even as the lines, "…_and sands uncounted laid on biers and buried everlasting-deep, slow and unbroken round him creep_…" escaped its nonexistent lips. It seared his hands with unbearable pain, but he managed to grip it just long enough to drop it into the freshly-formed hole. It landed on the sand beneath with a satisfying thump.

Maglor quickly caused the hole's sides to collapse, leaving no evidence of the Jewel's existence save the muffled sound of off-key singing. He ran.

He must have run for miles and miles, ever on that same untainted sand, until his legs could travel no further and he collapsed, falling instantly to sleep.

He awoke some hours later to two things: Anor's rays warming his skin, and a tone-deaf voice belting out the Lay's opening lines.

"_A king there waaas in daaays of ohhhld, ere Mennn yet walked upon the mohhhld_..."

Finally, reluctantly, lackadaisically, irritated, with a roll of his eyes, he joined in .

"_His bloody power was reared in bloody cavern's shade, his stupid hand was over glen and glade_…"

It was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

The last remaining son of Feanor was sitting on a low wall close to the ocean. Who had built it, and especially why, remained a mystery to him. It did not seem to serve any purpose whatsoever.

Something strange was going on in the West, Maglor was sure of it.

Mortal eyes would not have been able to see it – even the elf could barely make out the mass of dark clouds in the distance. He might not even have given it a second thought, but as far as he could tell, they had been hanging in the exact same spot for over a month now.

Strange.

Absentmindedly, Maglor plucked the strings of his harp. The notes turned into a melody and after a while, he almost forgot where he was.

His head shot up when a shadow fell upon him. Maglor was surprised to see that within minutes, the clouds had spread all over the sky. All of a sudden, the Western skies seemed to consist of darkness only.

The elf briefly thought about looking for a shelter, but he stayed where he was. For some reason, he could not avert his eyes, although he did not have a clue what was going on.

"I cannot see anything." A voice he knew all too well suddenly complained. "What's happening?"

The jewel was lying on the ground behind the wall.

"Why is it that you just cannot keep quiet?" Maglor asked, his eyes never turning away from the sea. "Just for one day? Please?"

"But I did not say anything for hours!" The Silmaril protested. Maglor rubbed his temples. It was giving him a headache. "And I still cannot see anything, so pick me up!"

The elf lowered his hands and looked at the Silmaril incredulously. "Pick you up? Every time I do that, you burn me! I will never get rid of the scars, not to mention the pain, and now you want me to do what? Let you sit on my shoulder so we can watch this… whatever is going on here, and you can hurt me again?"

"And how is that my fault?" The Silmaril asked.

"You ask me how that is your fault when your very existence…" Maglor intended to say something along the lines of 'ruined my family.' The jewel, however, interrupted him before he could finish his sentence.

"Now, that is hardly fair. Did I force you to kill your kin?" It did not bother to wait for his answer. "Because that is not what I recall. It seems to me that you, and your father, and your brothers went so mad that you…"

"Thanks for the lecture, I'd almost forgotten." Feanor's son did not let the jewel continue its speech. "Did anyone ever tell you that you should be nice to someone if you want something from them… like picking you up because you cannot see anything otherwise?" He paused. "How does a jewel see anyway?"

"You are trying to give me lessons on that?" The voice sounded as if the Silmaril was actually rolling its (non-existent) eyes. "And who do you suggest I should take as a role model? You? Because you and your brothers were so nice to Dior, or Elwing?"

Jewels should not know about sarcasm, Maglor decided. Where had it picked that up, anyway? Maybe it had spent too much time with Morgoth. At the same time, he feared that his own attitude had not been a positive influence, either.

"I still cannot see anything!" The Silmaril kindly reminded him.

Maglor sighed in defeat. Ignoring the pain, he picked it up and laid it down on top of the wall.

"There is really not that much to see." He said.

"Hm, I guess you are right." The jewel's statement surprised Maglor. "But it seems to be kind of important anyway, don't you think?"

"I suppose…" the elf murmured. Together, they stared into the distance.

"Wouldn't that island the Valar gave to Men after the War of Wrath be somewhere over there?" He had heard rumors about that.

"Hey, I'm just a jewel. How would I know?"


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Well, a week has gone by and it's already time for the next update. Oh, and you might have to wait a little longer for the next chapter, since I'll be out of town and most likely without my laptop next week.

Anyway, we hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter IV**

Maglor was incognito. After all, he had a reputation to uphold: For millennia it had been declared that he had not- and would never- return to the people of the Eldar or any dwelling of theirs. Desperate times, however, call for compromising measures, so he found himself donning an immense black hood and cloak and making his way toward the harbour- and town- of Mithlond.

The sun was just setting, and its last orange rays gleamed mesmerizingly off the face of the ocean. On the vacant streets, Maglor passed lofty towers and a few small quays, deserted. He must have walked for at least an hour, the strangely silent sack that burdened his left hand growing heavier all the time, before at last a fellow pedestrian was to be found on those avenues.

The tall elf who had taken a right onto Maglor's present street to walk in front of him appeared not to realize the Fëanorion's presence. Maglor, though, was for once in his wanderings, in need of noticing. "Excuse me?" he called, deep melodious voice echoing among the high walls around him.

When the other elf turned about to face him, it would have been difficult to say who was more surprised: Maglor, to see a tall Teler with radiant eyes, long, silver hair- and a beard, or the stranger, to see an intimidating, apparently faceless, figure standing before him in a shadowy mantle.

"May I help you?" asked the Teler slowly, eyeing the bundle that dangled at Maglor's side.

The Silmaril chose that very moment to resume the protests it had so vehemently offered when faced with the prospect of being bagged. "Let me out of here!" it shrieked. "It's so dark in here- like Angband again, but this time I'm suffocating! When are you going to release me, you monster?"

Maglor winced at the sound, but moved closer to the stranger despite the interruption. Clamping his hand over the sack and around the Jewel, he had to stifle a curse as it burned him even through the fabric. "I'm sorry," he said to the bearded elf, shooting a dirty look at the Silmaril. "Sir," he continued, "do you know when the next ship to Valinor leaves?"

From inside the sack, the Silmaril's snort could be heard. "Good luck with _that_."

"Shut _up_!" Maglor hissed, bowing his head to glare at the bag once more. "I'm trying to talk to this wonderfully forbearing man." He smiled sweetly up at the other elf. "My apologies, sir. My friend-" Here he lifted the bag and shook it once for good measure; "Hey! Watch it!" could be heard from within. He continued, "-just doesn't know when to _be quiet_." With those last two words, he shook the sack again before lowering it to his side once more.

The stranger nodded slowly, raised his eyebrows, and simpered nervously, glancing back and forth between Maglor and the bag. "In just a few minutes," he said quickly, making as if to turn around and perform as quick of an escape from Maglor and his hidden "friend" as possible.

"Wait," said Maglor, hastily stopping the man with a hand to the shoulder.

The other met his gaze again with a sigh.

"Could you take me to that harbour, sir?" asked Maglor, his voice sad, almost pitiable.

"Of course," was the Teler's curt reply. With a motion of his hand, he added, "Right this way."

Maglor followed with undue speed and enthusiasm, a smug smile playing upon his hardened features. The smirk quickly faded, though, when from the bag was heard, "You're more of an idiot than I'd thought you were if you think they'll let you in _there_."

"Shut up!" he hissed yet again in reply, earning a startled glance from his guide. "I apologize," he muttered, bowing his head- only to find himself glaring at the sack.

The Teler picked up his pace considerably after this episode, and within two blocks and seven minutes, Maglor beheld a small, grey ship docked at a quay extending perhaps a hundred feet into a massive bay surrounded on either coast by the quiet town of Mithlond.

"Here we are," said Maglor's guide, stopping at the end of the dock and holding out a hand to motion Maglor onto it.

"Thank you," said the Fëanorian, setting foot on the expanse with a squeak of its boards. Head held high and smirk returned in all its glory, Maglor marched triumphantly all the way to the dock's opposite end. Upon his arrival, he noted that the narrow gangplank had been almost fully raised. Several elves rushed to the ship's railing upon seeing Maglor apparently left behind.

"Wait!" someone called, and the plank dropped immediately back to the dock's surface with an echoing thud. "Hurry!" shouted someone else to Maglor, and he walked nearly halfway up the gangplank before suddenly extending the arm holding the bag and proffering the Silmaril's sack to the elf nearest him aboard the ship.

"Take this. Please," he whispered emphatically.

The _ellon _raised an eyebrow. "Why?" he responded slowly.

"It- it-" stuttered Maglor, "it just needs to return to Aman."

A terrific shriek was heard from within the bag. Maglor winced as a string of colourful curses followed shortly thereafter. The Silmaril's new victim, as Maglor regarded the _ellon_, appeared not to notice, however, and timidly stretched out his hand and took the sack, a quizzical expression remaining upon his visage.

As soon as the other had a grip on it, Maglor whispered, "Thank you," and strode down the dock as quickly as his dignity allowed. He did not turn back- though a familiar voice screeched, "Help! Help! An abduction! HEEELLLPP!"- until he stood in the archway marking the entrance to the main harbour, the last locale from which the departing ship could be viewed.

Shielding his eyes from the sunset's glare with his hand, he watched the grey ship fade slowly out of sight into the West. It disappeared into the horizon with the sun's last rays, and Maglor was left in the twilight, free at last.

~OoO~

The next morning, Maglor found himself traversing a familiar coastline. The sand beneath his bare feet was cool and moist though the midsummer sun beat down with intensity already. A lone set of footprints, growing steadily as he advanced and a singular melody, joyful and vivacious for the first time in Ages, were the only things to mark the presence of the bard- or anyone else- on the beach. Suddenly, he laughed: for the pure mirth of his newly-gained liberty from the Silma-

"Stop that cackling," resounded a well-despised voice from behind him. "You sound like a seagull being strangled."

Maglor whirled around, somehow tragically capable of believing his ears, only to see, resting tranquilly in the sand perhaps ten feet behind him, glimmering like a thousand stars, lovely as the radiant dawn, irresistible, inescapable, his one true love and most detested nemesis: the Silmaril. He could do nothing but stare in horror, barely suppressing the curses he mentally brought down upon this instrument of agony, himself, and even his father its maker.

He swallowed hard and walked toward it in silence. Somewhere in those unfathomable facets, he knew he could descry a smirk as the following was haughtily declared: "Nice try."


	5. Chapter 5

****AN: Sorry, it took me longer to update than I expected. Anyways, here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

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**Chapter V**

"Why would you even want to go there?" The Silmaril asked incredulously. "I knew you were a masochist but that's even more than I expected for you – and I've spent quite some time with you."

"Shut up."

He was an elf, and therefore it was not hard to enter the city at all. In fact, the warden at the gate was more than welcoming.

"We always rejoice when one of the fair folk visits our city. It is very fortunate for you to come here today, too, if I may say so; for this is the day that our King will present his newborn son to us for the first time. If you just stay close to the main road you might catch a glimpse at him on his way through the city."

Maglor thanked the warden kindly and passed through the gate. Indeed, people were already gathering along what he assumed was the main road. In millennia, he had not been among so many people. He was therefore most grateful that they did not take much notice of his presence. Maglor was sure that had they known who he was, they would not have permitted him to walk among them so freely. But the tale of his people was merely and ancient legend to them; and they did not recognize him.

The elf found a place somewhat in the background and stayed there, watching the people as they chatted merrily with each other. The excitement on their faces, and on the faces of their children, was something he had not seen in a long time.

"They are coming!" A voice somewhere in the crowd finally cried.

Indeed, he could soon see a tall man, accompanied by a beautiful woman, who was holding a small child in her arms, and a few guards. One of them was surprisingly small.

Maglor gasped involuntarily when his eyes fell on the woman. Naturally, he had never met Lúthien, daughter of Thingol. He remembered Celegorm's and Curufin's description of her, though, and the songs that had later been sung in Beleriand. For all he knew, this woman looked just like her. How was this possible?

He glanced at the man next. Maglor thought that it was a tall man, mighty and kingly indeed, but as far as he could tell, he did not have much in common with Elros as Maglor had known him. Maybe their personality was similar; but Maglor would never know that. He did not know if he was disappointed, or if he had truly expected anything else.

As soon as the royal couple had vanished behind the next corner, he slowly turned to leave.

"You are already leaving, my lord?" The warden at the gate wanted to know. "I expected you to stay a little longer."

"It was just a stop on my way." Maglor did not bother to explain that further; after all, he had no idea where he was headed off to.

He crossed the Pelennor Fields in silence. Just when he reached their borders, the jewel's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I have kept my promise, so will you let me out now?" Sighing, Maglor opened the sack and stared at it. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have black spots? It would not surprise me, you know, the inside of this sack…"

"I just cannot believe you actually behaved." Maglor cut in.

"Of course I did. But just this once, because I am really grateful that you did not try to throw me into Mount Doom like that Halfling did with Sauron's ring."

"But that would not have worked anyway, would it?" The elf asked curiously.

"Not at all. But it would have been very unpleasant."

"Oh, well… Do not thank me."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say, if Sauron had not had that many orcs stationed in Mordor…" Maglor's voice trailed off.

"You are unbelievable!" The Silmaril exclaimed. "And here I thought you were finally warming up to me…"


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **Another update, and we're jumping a little ahead in time. Have fun!**  
**

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**Chapter VI**

_I consider diamonds to be living beings,  
_

_embodying human spirits.  
_

_(Plato)  
_

Plato sighed, kicking idly at the clumps of sand and seaweed washing over his feet as he walked ankle-deep in cold Aegean water with the waning of the day. It had been far from a pleasant day at the Areopagus; debate after debate with young Aristotle- his own, pupil, suddenly disagreeing with him!- had left him mentally exhausted.

So he came here, where he had since childhood, to this stretch of beach apart from the world, a place to take respite from problems and challenges and writing, even- albeit seldom- from philosophy itself. There was something invigorating about the sea-wind in his now-greying hair that seemed to comfort him, tenderly whispering, "Be at peace."

But the mantras of the breeze were suddenly interrupted by the excited cry of an unfamiliar voice, and the coming into sight of a dark-haired figure, a tall young man, he seemed. The individual was still twenty yards or more from him, but he could hear clearly that another language was being spoken. The shouts were hardly of anguish; judging from the way the man was careening about and pumping his fist in the air, he seemed to be in the midst of rejoicing. He continued toward Plato, and the philosopher made up his mind to greet the gleeful youth as soon as he drew near enough.

Plato's chance soon came, for the reveler was soon within four feet of him. "Hail, stranger!" he called. "What's the cause for such a celebration, if I may ask?"

The other stopped and met the Athenian's gaze; Plato was immediately taken aback: despite his lithe frame and youthful features, the joyful stranger's grey eyes were ancient, as though they had beheld much horror and experienced much grief over long ages; they glowed with a brilliance from deep within, piercing they seemed as they locked with the philosopher's own. And though they displayed the sadness of time, at the moment they positively swam with mirth.

_Could this be a god? _Plato wondered; it was the gleam of inner flame that gave the stranger away as something more than human. _Dionysus, perhaps, alone on a revel in the mortal lands. _

But that assumption was soon shaken by the stranger's reply. "The Jewel is gone!" he said in broken Greek, a smile painting his handsome features. "After all these years of torment, I have finally cast it away: gone, I say! Gone!" The man leaped into the air for joy.

_Surely the Olympians speak our own language, _Plato considered. _But he is certainly drunk enough for Dionysus. Indeed, that could account for his difficulty of speech. _The philosopher suppressed a chuckle at that notion. "But surely a jewel, stranger," he answered, "would hardly be a thing desirable to lose..."

"Then you have surely not borne a Silmaril!" returned the other. "It will not be silent- a veritable demon the thing is, inhabited by some foul spirit for my torture." The ageless face had grown grave, but the man immediately brightened. "But now it is gone! I am free! Free to do as I like! Free from the past! Can you believe it, sir?" The stranger appeared on the verge of a fit of hysterical laughter, purely from mirth.

"A... Silmaril," Plato said slowly, letting the odd word play upon his tongue. _Perhaps it is a word in his tongue, for which he has no translation. _"Is it a diamond, _adamas_?" To the man's blank look, he elaborated, "Sparkling, unbreakable, white?"

"Almost," replied the stranger enigmatically, frowning, apparently at the change of topic.

"But this was... living?" probed Plato, inexplicably intrigued. "Was it a spirit itself?"

The man sighed. "So Father said; he told us all of them were: spirits of light and holiness, though I experienced only darkness and torture."

Plato smelled no alcohol on the man- _certainly not Dionysus, _he thought- and that radiance in his eyes told Plato that this man was sound of mind. The Athenian made to reply, further questioning the man like the eternal student he was, but the man suddenly- in something of a dance- turned around.

He froze mid-leap, apparently seeing something unexpected in the area his body blocked Plato's view of. His shoulders sank; it was not such a surprise after all. "And the same to you!" he shouted in genuine anger, still, bizarrely, speaking Greek. He revolved around once more, and said nothing more, instead running past Plato in the direction he had first been traveling.

Plato could see nothing in the waning light to cause the man to react so- but he could not forget those eyes. _Perhaps he knows how to listen for something we do not, and sees things with sight other than human, _reflected the philosopher and continued his walk.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **It occured to me that maybe not all of you are familiar with the Roman mythology discussed in this chapter. So I decided to include some basic information. If you're already an expert on the topic, just skip this part and enjoy the chapter.;)

If not:

_Metamorphoses: _written by the Roman poet Ovid, a collection of stories from the beginning of the world to the deification of Julius Ceasar. Basically, people always get transformed by the gods for one reason or the other in those.

_Jupiter: _supreme god in Roman mythology. Famous for is complete inablity to remain faithful to his wife.

_Juno: _wife of Jupiter. Known to be very jealous and angry because of her husband's inabilty to remain faithful.

_Vulcanus: _son of Jupiter and Juno. Something like the Aule of Roman gods.

_Venus: _goddess of love, and wife of Vulcanus. You probably heard of her.;)

I hope you didn't give up on our story during this rather long introduction. If you're still with us, we're very glad and hope you enjoy the next chapter!

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**Chapter VII**

They were sitting on a bank near the Colosseum. Well, Maglor was sitting. The Silmaril was hidden in the wrinkles of his tunic. They had just watched one of the famous shows that took place in the Colosseum on a regular basis. Wild beasts, gladiators – the people in the Roman Empire loved all that. Apparently, the wars they fought against ever new foreign peoples did not satisfy their desire for violence. Of course, the Colosseum had certain advantages to a real war. The spectators were safe there, and it was for free.

"Those humans are getting more and more barbaric. And they call _that_ civilization." The jewel sounded disgusted. "Why did we even go there again?"

Maglor sighed. They had had this discussion before. "Because everybody does. People will get suspicious if I live here and have not been to the Colosseum at least once. Especially since it is for free." If he had hoped that the Silmaril was going to be satisfied with this answer he had hoped in vain.

"I still do not understand why we have to stay in this city at all." His companion complained. "I liked it better when we were travelling."

"Of course you did." Maglor was getting annoyed. "You did not have to walk all these miles."

"As if it's my fault that I do not have legs."

"Are you trying to pretend that you are not quite capable of moving by yourself if you want to?" Maglor exclaimed in disbelief. "You are just too lazy, and you like being carried around, that's all!"

The Silmaril chose to simply ignore the elf's accusations. "You could have at least picked a place that is a little quieter than this city."

Maglor shrugged. He really did not care much. "Maybe next time."

"And you really do not have to leave me alone all day. I am bored."

"Well, excuse me if I have to earn a little money so I can pay the rent and food." Maglor replied sarcastically. "Any other complaints? Why don't you write a list?"

"Excuse me?" Their rather pointless discussion was interrupted by a man with a concerned look on his face. "Who are you talking to, milord?"

"I…" Maglor did not know what to say. He had to come up with something, and fast. It was then that he caught a glimpse of the title of the book the man was holding. _Metamorphoses._ Maglor smiled. It was worth a try. He bid the stranger to come closer.

"If you promise not to tell anyone I will show you." He whispered secretively. The stranger nodded, and Maglor revealed the Silmaril.

The man gasped at the beauty of the jewel. At the same time, he seemed to be confused. "It is marvelous – but why are you talking to a jewel?"

"Aye, milord." Maglor replied sadly. "This is not merely a precious stone. Its story is tragic, and not unlike the ones the poet Ovid has recorded in that book you are carrying with you. For this jewel has once been a very fair maiden who was much sought-after. But alas, her beauty and vanity greatly angered the goddess Juno who feared that the maiden was simply one more girl her husband might chase after, forgetting about his marriage vows. Therefore she asked her son, Vulcanus, to transform the maiden into a stone – for a stone would certainly not attract Jupiter's attention. Now Venus, Vulcanus' wife, begged her husband not to fulfill Juno's wish and destroy the maiden's beauty forever. Since he neither wanted to anger his wife more than necessary, nor dared to deny his mother's wish, however, Vulcanus turned the maiden into this."

The man glanced at Maglor skeptically. "Is that really true?"

"Of course it is." Maglor insisted. "Do you doubt the might of the gods?"

"What? Why, of course not…" The stranger suddenly looked quite uncomfortable. That was probably why he took his leave very fast after Maglor's last question.

The elf let go of a breath he did not know he had been holding. They had to be more careful in the future. Someday they might find themselves among people who he could not distract so easily with stories like that.

Of course, Maglor was only allowed to take a deep breath for a very short time. As soon as the stranger was out of sight and they were alone again, the Silmaril's screams disrupted any peace Maglor might have found otherwise.

"_Are you completely out of your mind? You just turned me into some vain, little victim of the gods!"_

"I know."


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Finally, a new chapter. We're aware that we're actually skipping back in time a little here, but we really didn't want to pass over Kingsdaughter613's suggestion. Also, since we've run out of finished chapters updates might get a little less frequent from now on. Updates will continue, however, we promise. But for now, enjoy the next chapter!

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**Chapter VIII**

"For once," remarked the Silmaril from its precipitous position by Maglor's boot, "neither you nor I did it."

The last Fëanorian would have rolled his eyes, had the silver orbs not been completely enraptured by the harrowing sight below: Jerusalem was falling. It hardly took the use of Maglor's keen elven eyes and ears to take notice of the din of battle- the clanging of metal on metal, shouts both of wrath and pain, or the vision of flames running along the walls and streets of the famed city; battering rams against her gates catered to both hearing and sight. Maglor bit his lip and sighed; there was a reason he preferred secluded coasts to lands highly populated by the Edain. Why was it that Mankind never failed to evoke within his (admittedly fragile) mind memories he would a thousand times prefer to disregard?

But the Silmaril, that pure, bloody, innocent, sinister, holy, irreverent thing, had managed to persuade him that a visit to Jerusalem would be a wise plan...

_"I hate the ocean," it had abruptly declared one day. "I want to go somewhere different." _

_Upon hearing the words, Maglor had had half a mind to disregard how the Jewel would burn his hand and remove it from its sack, then proceed to bang the cursed thing against his forehead until one of the two ended up dead. (He would have placed money on himself.)_

_But, albeit with difficulty, he kept his tone controlled, and, keeping his eyes on the horizon, said with all the dignity he could muster, "I hate you, and I want you to rot in the Void. We don't always get what we want, do we, darling?" _

_The Silmaril had laughed at that. "I do," it replied simply, "and right now, I want never to be placed on any stupid beach again." Could it have breathed, it would here have inhaled deeply ere plunging into the following spiel: "It isn't so bad for you, you know- you get to have boots and clothes, you get to stand up if you want. But as for me, I have sand in places you cannot imagine, thanks to your bloody carelessness- tossing me in the ocean, tossing me in a sack, tossing the sack on the ground, tossing the sack in the ocean..." _

_Maglor made to interrupt, but the Silmaril only continued, speaking more and more rapidly as not anger outright, but condescending irritation built in its tone. "And as I said, I hate the ocean, and I hate sand, and I want to go to a city, and if you don't take me to a city, I am going to start singing right now. Here I go; I'm warming up. La, la, la-"_

Since Jerusalem had been the nearest city to the motley pair's particular strand, it had been the destination of choice.

"You knew, didn't you?" Maglor now replied to the Jewel- with anger barely restrained.

"Knew what?" it responded sweetly; it may have been a trick of Maglor's eyes, or of the full moon riding high amid the clouds, but he could have swo- _but he was fairly confident_, rather, that it glimmered for just a moment more brightly.

"Sadist," he hissed, and with one swift motion moved his boot from its position behind the Silmaril into a swift kick of the gem off the summit of the hill.

But all he received in return was a stubbed toe from his poor aim, and the cheery comment, "Missed!"


	9. Chapter 9

****AN: Finally, a new chapter. We're in the middle ages now, and for a change, this isn't supposed to take place in any specific country/village. We hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter IX**

Maglor was running as fast as he possibly could in a forest full of trees. He was going uphill, too, because he hoped to escape easier that way. At least they could not follow him on horses here. That, and his elven strength and sight, were the only advantages he had.

"You're really out of shape, you know?" Of course the damn jewel would not even stop talking now.

"What does it matter?" Maglor hissed, "I can still outrun them."

"Maybe." The Silmaril did not seem to be impressed. "But what about their dogs?"

At that, Maglor heard the animals in the distance for the first time. "Damn!"

"If I were you, I'd rather not slow down now," the jewel suggested cheerily.

"Will you be quiet? If it weren't for you…"

"What about me now?" The Silmaril asked angrily. "I did not do anything! Well, blame me if that makes you feel better. But it is not my fault that you are so clumsy!"

Maglor sighed. To think that the day initially had not looked that bad…

_For once, he and the Silmaril had actually agreed on something. They wanted to leave the little village at the end of the world (or at least that was what it felt like to them) for one of the bigger cities where it was easier not to attract attention. _

"_Daddy, that man is talking to an invisible friend!" A voice interrupted their conversation. Talk about not attracting attention. _

"_Oh no, you are mistaken, little one." Maglor smiled at the boy. "I am merely practicing a trick."_

"_He is right." The boy's father looked at Maglor apologetically. "The man is just disguising his own voice and pretending that it comes from somewhere else. It is called ventriloquism."_

"_Wow." The boy obviously admired Maglor's supposed skill. "Can you teach me?"_

"_I am afraid I will not stay here long enough for that, little one."_

_The boy looked thoroughly disappointed when Feanor's son bid them farewell and started to walk away. _

_For a moment it seemed as if everything had gone well. Then, Maglor's hand accidentally brushed against the pocket that contained the Silmaril, and the jewel slipped out of it. It landed on the ground with a soft thud. The elf quickly bent over and grabbed the jewel, ignoring the burning sensation, while praying nobody had seen it. _

"_Daddy, that man's stone is glowing!" Maglor's heart sank. He threw a worried glance at the man, whose gaze remained fixed on the jewel._

_He only whispered one word. "Sorcery."_

_That was when Maglor decided it was time to run._

"Careful!" The Silmaril's scream interrupted Maglor's thoughts. The elf stopped dead in his tracks. An abyss opened just a few feet in front of him.

Maglor carefully surveyed the gap. It was not too wide. Maybe he could…

"Are you mad?" The Silmaril shrieked. The elf did not pay attention while he stepped back a little, took a run, and jumped.

It was tight, but he made it. Humans or dogs surely would not be able to follow him now. They had to find a way around the gap first. And when they did, he would be long gone.

"You are mad," the Silmaril confirmed weakly.

Its reaction surprised Maglor, but he decided not to mention it. "You saved my life when you warned me," he said instead.

"Do not flatter yourself," the jewel muttered, "I just did not want to fall down with you."


End file.
